INT. RECOVERY ROOM – LATE MORNING
I am slowly waking up, groggy from the anesthesia, which also gave me the best nap for the week.
Doctor: Well, everything looked good.
Me, perking up: Yes!
Doctor: until we reached the end, where we found a mass.
Me: a mass?
Doctor: I can draw you a picture.
Doctor sketches a blob on a piece of paper.
Doctor: It was too big to remove at this time, but we took some samples and are sending them to the lab. I’m also going to recommend a CT scan, just to check.
Me, looking at the blob: How big is too big to remove?
Doctor: About six centimeters.
Me: How long do you think it’s been there?
Doctor: Probably for about a year.
Me: Wow. What could I have done to prevent this?
Doctor: Nothing. It’s genetic.
END SCENE
INT. HOME. KITCHEN.
Me, pulls out tape measure.
Me:
END SCENE
A FEW WEEKS LATER
INT. COLONOSCOPY EMR PREP ROOM. FLURRY OF ACTIVITY WITH LOTS OF NURSES AND PEOPLE COMING IN AND OUT TO HOOK UP STUFF, ASK QUESTIONS, FILL OUT PAPERWORK.
Me, to the nurse tasked with finding a vein: There should be a better way. I’m purposely dehydrated per the prep instructions, yet that also means my veins are, too. Surely science has advanced enough where there’s a way to hydrate the key to find a vein yet not ruin things for the procedure.
NURSES TAKE TURNS FINDING A VEIN UNTIL ONE FEELS CONFIDENT THEY HAVE A GOOD ONE.
Me: My veins were amazing when I was younger. I swam competitively, always had excellent veins.
INDISTINGUISHABLE CHATTER.
Me: Wait, I can see it?
NP: Yes. Let me pull it up.
Swings lap top around so I can see.
NP: This is the start of the colon, this is a marker where we are.
NP points to a handy chart.
NP, opening another image file and pointing to the chart. “This is here.”
NP opens image file with mass: “And this is what appeared at the end.”
Me: 
Laughter fills the room.
Me: Geez. I don’t want to think about what things would be like if I’d waited. This might be an entirely different conversation.
People in the room: Yes. Definitely. It’s really really good you’re getting this done.
People moving around, getting things situated to move me to the procedure room.
Me, looking at all the wires connecting me to various things: Wireless has no meaning in a hospital.
Laughter as I’m wheeled out.
END SCENE
INT. PROCEDURE ROOM. MUSIC PLAYING. UPBEAT, CHEERFUL MUSIC.
Me: It’s like a party!
Someone in the room: They lock us in a windowless room, so we have music.
Me, looking around, counting the number of monitors: Man, you need like a big, wide screen wrap around.
Laughter in the room.
Someone next to me: Administering dose.
Me: OK. I will shut up and follow instructions now.
Gentlemen next to me in scrubs: Oh you’re going to get a really nice nap.
END SCENE.
INT. RECOVER ROOM. 3HRS LATER:
Very groggy. Slowly, very slowly get dressed, put in a wheel chair, and wheeled out. The corridors and hallways that were bustling with people when I arrived are silent. It’s almost dark outside.
Later, Dad will send photos he took when the doctor brought the mass he removed. Later you will learn it was bigger than expected. Later you will be so proud of yourself for advocating to get a colonoscopy even though you are not 45. Later you will be even more appreciative of the NP who helped you navigate what to do get a colonoscopy early. Later you will consider the prep, the extra day of clear liquids and the 3 days of a soft food diet to be worth it.
END SCENE
INT. HOME OFFICE. 1 WEEK LATER.
Phone rings. Doctor has the biopsy results.
It’s not cancer. You can wait a year for your next colonoscopy.
Later you’ll joke that you’ve joined the family frequent flier plan
Later you’ll think “Fish fry night in Wisconsin, with my parents. I’m over 40 now, so we have the “adult talk,” and go over all the fun, wonderful medical things I now have to pay attention to, like turning 40 flips a switch and poof! Your genes are now in charge, like now you get to find out which side of the family has really been running the show.”
Later, there will be details that you remember, like talk of being intubated and that not all anesthesia is the same, and how you’ve practically filled your medical bingo card in 2 months.
Later you’ll wonder if you should turn this into an essay, or a stand-up routine.
END SCENE.